“For what it’s worth,” Marcus said, his voice loud enough for everyone in the lobby to hear, “this isn’t just about Julian. I spent 12 minutes standing by that front desk before he came over. I heard your receptionist tell a Black single mom over the phone that the $300k townhome in Maplewood was already under contract, even though I saw her mark it as available in your system 10 seconds before the call. I heard two of your top agents laughing about how they turn away anyone with a Hispanic last name, because ‘they never qualify for the loans anyway.’ This isn’t one bad apple. This is a rotten entire tree.”
Carter’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say a word. He knew Marcus was telling the truth. He’d written the unwritten policies himself: no clients who looked like they made less than six figures, no single parents, no people of color unless they showed up in a luxury car with a personal banker on speed dial. He’d built the entire Platinum Estates brand on exclusivity, and he’d never cared who he had to shut out to keep it that way.
Marcus tucked his press badge back into his pocket, adjusting the strap of his worn canvas backpack over his shoulder. “The state fair housing commission already has a copy of the first half of the footage. They’ll be in touch with your legal team first thing tomorrow. Have a nice rest of your day, gentlemen.”
He turned and walked out of the glass front doors, the warm spring sun hitting his face as he stepped onto the sidewalk. He didn’t look back. He could hear Julian’s panicked wailing through the glass behind him, begging Carter not to fire him, but he didn’t care. For the first time since his mom died three months earlier, the tight knot of grief in his chest felt a little lighter.
Six months earlier, Marcus had been sitting in a sterile hospital room holding his mom’s swollen, burnt hand, listening to the beep of the heart monitor drown out the noise of the fire trucks wailing in the distance.
